Conquistador
by coffeeandcas
Summary: Will has always grappled with his fear, in the many ways it presents itself. Hannibal is the only person able to chase his demons away for him.


_I want your love, I want your disease_

 _I want you, open-mouthed and on your knees_

 _I want your love_

 **Bad Romance, Thirty Seconds to Mars**

Control, in one way or another, dominates Will's life. A lack of it, an abundance of it, subjected to it and cocooned by it: he always feels it there, behind his closed eyelids and in the shadows of his peripheral vision. It's something he never quite acknowledged he struggled with until, one dreary Baltimore morning, Hannibal Lecter walked primly into his life and ever since then Will has been lost to him.

Hannibal revels in Will's relationship with control. They became very close very quickly during those off-the-record therapy sessions and one evening, after too much bourbon in Hannibal's office at the end of a hour, Will had confessed that he frequently finds himself falling with nobody to catch him and that the loneliness is eating him alive. He felt as though he were on a rollercoaster careering towards a cliff top, the rails suddenly collapsing beneath him and sending him careering off towards oblivion with nobody there to help pull him to safety.

That night, Hannibal had thought of Will a lot. He had taken a long, hot bath then masturbated in his bed to images of the boy on his knees at his feet, cheek resting on his thigh, finding serenity in someone else's power. He has drawn his pleasure out, dipping his thumb into the wet slit of his dick, stroking his balls with his other hand, imagining Will's mouth on them. The image was stark and forbidden and it had grown in intensity and eroticism until Hannibal's body had tightened in the thrones of an orgasm so powerful it made his vision darken and his voice grow hoarse. For a long time he had stared at his own hand, slick with his creamy release as it cupped his softening cock, then he had reached for his phone and dialled Will's number. He had fantasised that the scent of his arousal and release could carry down the line all the way to Wolf Trap.

They had met for breakfast the following morning then Hannibal had driven Will home, stilling him before he could leave the car with a hand on his wrist, and had shocked him into silence by lifting his hand and kissing his knuckles.

"Whatever it is you're seeking, Will. Whatever it is that eludes you, frightens you so by it's absence, leaves you feeling so alone. Consider that the solution to it all might be much closer than you think. It may lie in the hands of somebody you already know well, somebody you hopefully trust." He had pulled Will towards him then by the hand, and the younger man had gone, too shocked to protest. Hannibal had leaned in close, kissed his neck, brushed his curls back from his forehead then leaned across him to open the passenger door. "Think about it, dear Will. Please do think about it."

Will did think about it. He thought about it an awful lot, and eventually after a few false starts and chronic losses of confidence he had managed to stammer to Hannibal that he was interested in the suggestion, curious, and he wanted to know more.

Now, a year later, Will is his perfect boy, his lover and his sub, and his nightmares rarely plague him these days. He spends his days lecturing and avoiding Jack, and his evenings dining with Hannibal and sleeping at his side, soundly. Mostly they stay at Hannibal's Baltimore home but Wolf Trap calls to them occasionally. Will's neighbour has all but adopted his dogs and while he misses them greatly Will is often grateful for the freedom. He has his sanity and his peace, and Hannibal has exactly what he wants: Will.

At present, Will is in the kitchen at his side, polishing the wine and water glasses they used at dinner and holding them up to the light to check the shine. Hannibal watches him work with a small smile gracing his lips. They've both eaten their fill of seared calves liver, fondant potato topped with truffle butter, and the meal had been finished off with individual homemade cheesecakes, salted caramel and honeycomb, a personal favourite of Will's. He never says as much but the expression on his face, akin to when he's lost in the throes of pleasure and caught between Hannibal's thighs, says it all.

Will now dresses for dinner in clothing Hannibal selects for him. He knows Will's size, has taken him to his tailor upstate and regularly hangs new suits, shirts, pants and ties in the closet for Will to find. The cut of everything is fine and delicate, accentuating the lines of Will's body, and more snugly fitted than the clothing he dons for his lectures or to meet Jack at crime scenes - for that, Hannibal is glad. This version of Will is his and his alone, for their private life only. Tonight Will is in charcoal pants that hug his ass and thighs and a turquoise shirt open collar; the colour brings out his eyes beautifully and Hannibal has found himself captivated by them on more than one occasion over dinner this evening. And around his wrists are soft black leather cuffs, fur lined, with a solid platinum O-ring adorning each of them. They've been worn in comfortably and Hannibal reaches for one now, brushing his thumb over the leather, lifting Will's hand to inhale the deep scent and the rich aroma of Will's aftershave - also a gift from Hannibal, for his last birthday.

"You've done a fine job, my dear. Put them away now and let's have a drink together. Wine or whiskey?"

He meets Will in the drawing room and watches the younger man as he stands by the fire sipping a ten-year-old Malbec as the flames dance before him. Watches him roll his shoulder and stretch out his neck. He had fallen badly at a crime scene the other day, catching himself on the frozen ground and jarring the shoulder that still carries the old stab wound and he's been stiff ever since. Hannibal sits down in a high-backed leather armchair and waits for Will to come to him. Which he will, in his own time.

Hannibal reads, Lolita, the Russian translation by Nabokov himself, sips his wine, gives Will his space. The younger man inclines his head again, stretching his neck, tense and sore. Hannibal's fingers itch to massage the pain away. Soon, not soon enough, Will approaches him and gestures vaguely with his glass.

"May I join you?"

"Of course, lumière de ma vie. However you like." Hannibal closes the book and sets it down, waiting for Will. And, as he expected, Will sets his glass down on the table beside Hannibal's and kneels at his feet, resting his temple against the expensive fabric of Hannibal's pants, and sighing in contentment. His eyes flutter closed as Hannibal's fingers find the back of his neck and rub in slow circles. "Your neck is bothering you."

"It's a little sore," Will confesses, pressing into the touch. It's a huge point of progress: months ago he would have shrugged, mumbled that he was fine and ducked his head to allow Hannibal to make his own judgements. Now, he asks for what he wants, is open about his needs. "That feels good." His blue eyes open and he looks up at Hannibal through his lashes, unconsciously coy. "Read to me?"

"Of course, my dear."

Hannibal picks up his book again, continues his gentle massage of Will's neck and reads in low, honeyed tones, lightly accented Russian that he knows the boy loves. Soon enough, Will's eyes slip closed and his head becomes heavier against Hannibal's thigh. His breathing deepens and slows as he drifts, and soon Hannibal stops reading just to listen to the sound of his breath. He loves this young man with all that he has, and the gift of his submission is something that will never tire. He loves watching Will relax, his body grow lax and heavy, safe in the knowledge that Hannibal will look after him.

A while later, Hannibal wakes him with gentle fingers through his hair and a light nip to the sensitive skin beneath his ear. Will stirs, presses his cheek then his lips to Hannibal's leg, gazes up at him with the soft warmth of the newly awake.

"Will you allow me to draw you a bath? It will ease the tension in your muscles."

"Only if you join me," Will traces the houndstooth pattern on Hannibal's thigh with a fingertip. "I don't want to bathe alone."

"As you wish." Hannibal smiles as Will climbs up onto the chair beside him, somehow slotting his body in alongside the older man's half at his side and half on top of him, and they share a deep, sensuous kiss. Hannibal combs his fingers through Will's curls and Will traces the line of Hannibal's jaw. The leather cuff stands out against his skin, black against golden tan, and Hannibal turns to kiss the inside of his wrist, tongue flicking out to taste the leather. "You'll keep these on while you bathe. I enjoy seeing you in nothing but them."

"You'll have to wash my hair. I hate getting them wet."

"I'm certain that won't be a problem." Hannibal cradles Will to him, kisses him with desire and dominance, licking into his mouth and swallowing all the beautiful sighs he pulls from his boy. Will tastes delicious, sweet and spicy and rich and Hannibal presses him closer, kissing more fiercely, his tongue seeking more from the boy who melts against him in his arms.

The bath Hannibal runs for them is scented with oil imported from Japan and as warm steam rises from it in perfect tendrils he watches Will inhale deeply, eyes closed, the scents of jasmine sambac and red mandarin infusing the air. He strips Will slowly, standing behind him and kissing his neck as the younger man relaxes into him, head tipped back as his shirt is unbuttoned at an unbearable pace. When Will's chest is exposed Hannibal runs his hands across the planes of it, thumbs brushing over pert nipples, fingers dipping low into the waistband of tight boxer briefs. He unfastens Will's pants, slides them and his underwear down his thighs and helps him out of them, and they settle into the claw-foot copper tub, Will resting between Hannibal's legs with his back to the older man's chest. His hands remain on the sides of the tub, cuffs well away from the water, and he dozes lightly with his head on Hannibal's shoulder.

Hannibal washes his hair with his own shampoo, enjoying the knowledge that Will will be drenched in his scent for the following days. He's sure Will falls asleep while he's massaging conditioner through the too-long curls, so he spends extra time doing it just because he can. Will sighs against him, presses closer, legs spread as wide as the bathtub will allow and his semi-hard cock visible through the warm, scented water. Hannibal thinks of touching him, bringing him to full arousal then to orgasm, but decides to wait. He wants his boy in his bed with him, needy and pliant and whimpering into his skin. As beautiful as a sleepy Will is, he doesn't share his arousal as freely and Hannibal wants as much of him as he can get tonight.

He washes Will's chest and shoulders, strokes his neck, kisses his cheek, revels in the feeling of having him so close in his arms. Will's breathing is soft and low, he's free of his nightmares, and Hannibal wants him to sleep this sweetly always. And, always, in his arms.

He wakes Will to help him from the warm water, sleepy and soft and seeking gentle kisses, and dries him with a fluffy towel. He kisses the cuffs, kisses Will's mouth, lifts him in a bridal carry and deposits him on the bed while ignoring the protests of his knees and lower back. He'll carry Will to bed until his body goes out; it gives him untold pleasure to be able to do this for his boy.

Sleepy-sweet, Will stretches out nude on the silk sheets, turns to Hannibal with doe-eyes and nuzzles his way down his body until he's between his legs, licking and sucking him to hardness. Hannibal reclines against the pillows, his bathrobe open to allow Will all the access he needs, and surrenders himself to his lover's mouth. Will is beautiful like this, his submission quiet and tender, his mouth the hot pleasure Hannibal is seeking. His caresses Will's jaw, combs his hands through his curls, grips them when the pulses of pleasure ebb and crest. Will deep-throats him with a low moan and that's what pushes Hannibal to the edge and over.

He kisses the taste of his release from Will's mouth, pulling him close, licking in deep, biting his bottom lip and nipping the junction between ass and thigh until his boy squirms.

"Sweet boy. Mon péché, mon âme. Forever mine."

"I'm tired, Hannibal." Will stretches, yawns hugely. "And it's cold in here. Light the fire?"

"Not tonight. But I'll warm you, if you're feeling the cold." Hannibal turns him onto his stomach, reaches into the top drawer of the bedside table for lavender oil. "A massage. Close your eyes, let me take care of you."

And he does. His hands caress Will's shoulders and neck with love in their touch, smoothing down the planes of his back, thumbs tracking each vertebrae of his spine. Then his ass, down his thighs, working each calf individually before stoking his thumbs over the soles of Will's feet. By this point, the only sound in the room is low, deep breathing and a slight snore on the exhale. He draws the covers up over both of them, presses his lips to Will's neck and opens his arms as his boy curls in close, drowsy and malleable, their nude bodies curling together. He pets Will until he falls asleep completely then unfastens the cuffs from his wrists and discards them. Then he kisses the inside of each wrist, hands slack in sleep, then the pad of each finger.

"Je veux ton amour," he whispers into Will's hair. "I love you. Sleep well, my darling Will. I'll keep the nightmares at bay."

And he does, as promised. Will sleeps soundly in his arms as Hannibal holds him, waking only once to seek a kiss and a caress before falling back into dreamland again.

Hannibal, forever nocturnal, watches over him, his boy, his little lion heart. So wilful, so damaged, yet so strong. So sweet in his submission, in the control he hands to Hannibal without question. It's a gift, and one Hannibal cherishes like no other. He tells Will he loves him, shows him unconditionally, and in return Will gives him everything he has and more, allows Hannibal to conquer his nightmares and keep his fear at bay, and it's the sweetest taste Hannibal can ever remember. He didn't think love could be like this, so carnal and obsessive yet so romantic, so perfect. There's an innocence about Will, even when he's cuffed in leather and kneeling docile at Hannibal's feet, and it's a light Hannibal hopes will never fade from him. Will is a type of perfection others can only dream of achieving.

He's special. Divine.

His.


End file.
